


After the Sandwich

by thecookiemomma



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:23:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry deals with PTSD</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot. I had a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. (Originally posted at [HP Fandom](http://www.hpfandom.net/eff/viewstory.php?sid=31633))

**Author's note: One-shot. I had a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to JKR.**

After the sandwich

The familiar sights and scents of the Gryffindor dormitory were extremely comforting to one Harry Potter. The unfamiliarity of being completely alone, however, started to wear on him after a very short while. He wished for a few of his friends to come barging into the room. Not so that he could talk to them, but because he wanted the noise. He glanced down at the empty plate, grateful to the batty old house elf who had taken his extremely odd request in stride. Hermione had looked at him in exasperation as she always did when he remembered that he didn't have to forage for his own food and snapped his fingers to summon the house elf. However, she didn't say anything, as Ron grabbed her hand, and drew her away. Ron and Hermione had their own ways of coping, all of which somehow involved celebrating life by taking over an empty dorm for a while. Without him. Which, right now, suited Harry just fine.

He wanted to be alone. He was tired. Exhausted, really, but hadn't noticed it until just now. He snapped his fingers again, getting Kreacher to take the plate away, and laid down to sleep.

It only seemed minutes later that he was bolt upright in bed, wand in hand, staring at the door. No one was there. He was alone. The terror that shook him seemed so familiar. The only problem was that there wasn't a reason. Voldemort was dead. Harry was free. It had cost so much, but it was over. He inhaled, exhaled, closed his eyes, and laid back down to sleep. It only happened three more times while he napped, which for some days, was a good long rest, but it worried him. He wasn't sure who to talk to. Madame Pomfrey was so busy with the wounded, and consoling the bereaved. Besides, he was a hero. He'd make it through. It'd go away.

The days melted into each other like ice cream left out in the current summer sun. He helped out where he could, mostly in the infirmary wing and then with the construction. He met with Kingsley on a regular basis, hoping to avoid too much press but ultimately willing to give Kingsley all the good press he could use. Most of the time, the two men talked about inconsequential things, a strong friendship growing between them, but sometimes, the conversations had importance. Sometimes, Harry got to help the Ministry of Magic decide policy. Usually, it was just letting Kingsley have someone to talk to. But if Harry had an opinion, the Minister was willing to listen. He was happy. Mostly. There was this undercurrent of unrest that seemed to hound him. A frustration, an annoyance that seemed to bubble out from time to time with no discernible reason.

And the nights. He didn't always sleep alone; getting back together with Ginny didn't take much effort. He gave her a while to make sure she liked the Boy Who Lived now that he wasn't a boy and had “achieved his destiny”. She did. So, when he wasn't alone, things weren't as bad. But when he was, the nightmares returned. Nearly constantly. Variations on a theme. Sometimes, it was a long, slow, dolorous show, parading all the people he'd thought he'd failed. The ones who'd died, he assumed, because of him. Other nights, the frenetic pace of battle pervaded his dreams, causing him to wake up screaming. When this happened and he wasn't alone, Harry would be mortified. Completely and utterly embarrassed. Ginny would comfort him, sometimes with words, sometimes without, and he would eventually get back to sleep. She took it in stride, believing that if he needed to talk, he would. Unfortunately, having been raised the way he had, that was bloody unlikely.

Help came completely by accident. Harry started frequenting a little muggle pub near the Ministry when he started taking his training for the Auror program. One day, one of the older men flinched when a car backfired outside. Harry flinched too, and the two men looked at each other with cautious expressions of curiosity.

The old man, a slender, wiry and wizened man, gazed at Harry with an odd expression. “Bit young to have served, ain't ye?” The man picked up his coffee cup, took a long sip, and set it down again in a movement Harry recognized as a cover for embarrassment. “One of the few left from the Second War...” This struck Harry as ironically amusing, considering that's what they called his own 'war.'

“Yeah. I served. Not quite the same way, though.” His answer piqued the old man's interest, apparently, because an honest appraisal began. And, so did the stories. Harry was a receptive, understanding audience for Morris, as the old man began his stories of volleys and Nazis and memories of war gone by. Every time Harry returned to the Cup and Bucket, Morris would tell another tale of war. Something the younger man knew all too well.

One day, though, Morris stopped mid-story. “You probably can't tell me much, young man...” He frowned, still trying to understand how such a young boy would know what Harry seemed to know. “But you ought to tell me _something_. What you can, I mean. Good for the soul.” Harry nodded, seeing the truth in the old man's words.

So, Harry started telling all his tales. Highly edited and changed beyond recognition. Curses became gunshots or artillery. Flying became air raids. Nasty beasts became ... well, he wasn't sure how a basilisk would translate, so he wildly invented, calling it a secret weapon, making Ginny under the influence of drugs, and wielding the weapon without realizing it. When Harry let the man know that the woman who'd been in trouble was his pretty young finaceè, Morris growled in anger, muttering about conventions of war and things like that. Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that she'd been eleven years old at the time.

Talking it out with someone who understood helped. But he was still confused and frustrated about the continuing nightmares and strange feelings that struck him. He tried to ask Morris about it, but couldn't. He did notice some of the same stuff people asked him about, though: the underlying near-paranoia, the jumping at flashing lights and loud sounds. So, one day, before Morris arrived, Harry asked their regular barmaid, who was also Morris' niece.

“Old ones call it 'shell-shock'.” This was news to Harry. He'd never heard of such a thing, either in the magical world or in the muggle. The confusion must have been evident on his face, because Lorelai continued. “Doctors've got a fancy name for it, and they told him how to deal with it, but ...” She waved her hand. “It's gotten easier. Biggest help's been finding someone to talk to—a listener to his stories.” This made Harry lift his eyebrows, and he frowned slightly. Lorelai looked like she wanted to continue, but as Morris stepped up to their table, the conversation was over, and another begun.

Harry thought about it, and even asked Hermione about it. “Oh, Harry,” she started to give him a long, searching look.

“Hermione, leave it. I just want to know if you know about this, and if the Healers know about it, and if they know what to do.” He looked down at his feet. “You know, how does it translate from Muggle...” They'd done this before, discussing how various things moved from one world to the other, how some of the basic, everyday things that parents would teach children... well, even how to ask Molly and Arthur the questions. Often, he didn't even know how to broach the subject. This was just another one of those things.

“I don't know, Harry. Maybe you could ask Kingsley?” Now there was an idea. He was an Auror, and had dealt with people in both wars.

He nodded. “Good idea, Hermione.” He wished he could talk to Moody about it, having seen some of the same behaviors. However, Moody was gone. So, it made sense to ask the man who'd been a very senior Auror and a good friend. “I wonder if I should introduce him to Morris...” He smiled at the thought, and shook his head at Hermione's blank look.

The idea rolled around in his head, and kept popping up. Finally, there was nothing for it but to go talk to the minister and see what he thought. So, he scheduled an appointment, beyond their usual chats, and stepped into the office to talk to Kingsley.

“They call it 'Curse Shock.' Old Moody had it bad.” Harry knew this, but listened anyway. “For the longest time, he couldn't sleep three nights in a row without waking somebody up.” Harry winced. “Oh. Merlin. I should have...” The look of concern on Kingsley's face wasn't the pity Hermione often showed him, or the grudging respect mixed with worry that Ron expressed. Shacklebolt's face was a picture of fatherly care that Dumbledore might have showed from time to time, or that James definitely would have, were he present. It warmed the young man's heart.

“S'okay, Kings. I thought something was...” He didn't finish his sentence, not wanting to say what crossed his mind: that he was abnormal, that his scar and the strange life he'd led had brought one more thing that nobody'd seen before. It was a relief that it was a common thing. “Healers know how to handle it?”

Kingsley shook his head. “Not really, Harry. They can treat the symptoms, but ... really, only time and talking it out with somebody helps. If you ever want to...” Harry held up a hand.

“Actually, I've been talking to an old Muggle bloke...” When the minister opened his mouth to object or reprimand, Harry chuckled. “Kind of twisted the stories some, based on his...” He tried to remember what the old man had said. “He fought in the Muggle war? The one against the Germans and the ...” He frowns, remembering. “The Second War.” That's right, it was like his own.

“Still, I don't know how you'd tell your stories without telling about magic, Harry. How'd you manage that?” For all his knowledge, there were some things Kingsley didn't know, and Harry just grinned.

“Come to lunch with me, and I'll introduce you.” Kingsley gave another nervous look, and Harry continued. “You're my boss. Or will be, I guess. That's how I'll talk about you. I mean, he knows I'm training to be a special sort of policeman.” Kingsley nodded at this, and got his traveling cloak.

The meal went well, especially after Morris found out that Kingsley was Harry's boss. “Got a keeper here, Mr. Shacklebolt.” Lorelai served them, grinning at Harry, and teased him. Harry kept up his end of their usual banter.

“We do indeed. He's been an asset to us for a very long time.” Kingsley couched his phrases carefully, and took a bite of the sandwich he had in front of him. The look he granted Harry spoke volumes, as though he had spoken directly into his mind. _Carry on, son. Carry on._

That night, Harry slept through the night for the first time in a very long time.


End file.
